


the heart is bold that looks on gold

by Liu



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Angst, Confusion, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Seduction, Smut, Teasing, Young Thorin, set before Smaug appeared, with a tiny hint of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin could not expect what was to come when one Elven King came to visit Erebor...</p>
            </blockquote>





	the heart is bold that looks on gold

**Author's Note:**

> There are moments in some movies when I just think 'someone really needs to write this fanfiction'. And when I can't find it anywhere, I end up butchering the idea. Here you go; you've been warned.

Thorin had expected elves to smell of spring rain and damp earth and green leaves.

Granted, Thorin had never seen an elf before in his life: his expectations were based merely on a few books, several songs and a couple of jokes which were to be found in Erebor. Dwarves held no interest in the affairs of the Firstborn – but when the King of Greenwood the Great appeared to pay tribute to Thorin’s grandfather, the young dwarven prince found himself taken in nonetheless.

As Thorin stood by his grandfather’s throne, he could not help but cast an appraising look or two at the elven King’s entourage. They were all ridiculously tall and pale all over, but King Thranduil seemed to tower even over his own folk. It was not so much his stature as the regal air about him, the way he held himself, the way his eyes condescended even when bowing humbly. Pride shimmered over him like a light, adding to his beauty where it would appear foul in anyone else, and stirred a mixture of desire and confusion deep in Thorin’s stomach.

Of course, he did not realize his own want until after the welcoming feast: confusion prevailed in his mind throughout the meal and the entertainment. He made an unconscious effort to stay near the elven King, listening for every Thranduil’s word, gathering them like droplets of knowledge Thorin wished to keep fresh within his mind. He told himself he merely wished to learn more of the lands beyond the gates of Erebor, but ale flowed freely that night, not unlike any other at King Thror’s table, and soon Thorin found his glances straying to Thranduil’s lips a little too often for Thorin’s interest to be mere scholarly curiosity.

After all, Thorin had never been a scholar.

He cornered the elven King in one of the darker corridors of Erebor, on the way to the guest quarters. He did not know what he was doing, but he was young enough to let his instincts and his drinks guide his actions; Thranduil merely looked amused, in that distant way of his, when Thorin’s hands gripped his waist and pushed him against the masterfully carved wall of the corridor. The stone was cold and so was Thranduil’s smirk, but Thorin felt liquid fire pool in his chest, warming him from the inside in a way he’d never known before, and so he pressed closer and found what an elf smelled like.

It was something clean and pure and hard, like a vein of silver running through stone, shimmering vaguely in the darkness. Thorin had expected to be reminded of his few ventures into the nearby woods, of moss and rabbits and strawberries and mushrooms. Instead, there was only one thing to which he could liken the feeling that took him when he buried his face in the elf’s chest.

“You remind me of the Arkenstone,” he whispered feverishly, words slurring and catching on the shimmery fabric of Thranduil’s light robes, warming it for a few precious seconds before it cooled off and felt like water under Thorin’s cheek again. He was more than just a little tipsy, and he wanted things he could not name, could not imagine, but he was nearly choking with the sheer need of _something_.

Thranduil probably understood, Thranduil with his knowing, yet slightly cold smile, cold like his touch when he brought his slim fingers to Thorin’s cheek, gently, yet resolutely pushing the young dwarf’s head away from his chest.

“Go to sleep, young prince, and let me rest after my journey,” he advised quietly, then slipped out of Thorin’s shaky hold, disappearing in his assigned chambers.

That night, Thorin slept poorly, tossing and thrashing around in his bed, unable to forget the cool, yet burning feel of Thranduil’s hand. He did not dream; but by morning, when the haze of too much ale seeped out of his mind, he knew what it was he wanted so badly.

……………………………………………………………..

Thranduil seemed to know just as well. Thorin watched him at breakfast, transfixed by the slow, deliberate way Thranduil put food in his mouth, licked his lips, chewed with steady determination and no rush. It was so unlike anything Thorin had seen in Erebor: dwarves were used to being messy at their meals, enjoying food with every fiber of their body, every hair of their beards. Thranduil did not let even one crumb of bread escape, and Thorin could not help but watch, even after (or maybe especially after) Thranduil caught him staring and offered a slight quirk of lips as a response. Clearly, the elf knew of Thorin’s interest, and was deeply amused by it; while Thorin’s pride let out a war cry at that, wishing to see the elven king humbled and awed, that little something in his chest that kept swirling around restlessly at the sight of the elf whispered that amusement was much better than flat-out disapproval or rejection.

It was Thranduil who suggested he would like to see more of Erebor than the throne room and the dining hall; he had looked at Thorin and the dwarven prince volunteered before he could give it a thought. Not that his decision would have been any different; thinking was not of use in such moments.

Thranduil let Thorin stumble through the most important places and halls of Erebor, trailing after him with his usual dispassionate look, simply nodding here and there to Thorin’s explanations. Thorin himself could not but keep his gaze on the elf instead of on the intricately carved walls of his home, tripping over his words like a flustered dwarfling. They wandered deep into Erebor’s caverns; while Thranduil did not show overt enthusiasm, he also showed no signs of disinterest or boredom, and so Thorin rambled on, his palms clammy and his heart hammering in his ribs, scared of embarrassment and rejection. Yet even that fear could not quell the need Thorin felt to touch the elven King: through their venture into the depths of the Lonely Mountain, Thorin’s mind waged a furious war with his lust-hazed heart. It took hours before he could not but give in to the urge; his hand rose to rest at the small of Thranduil’s back lightly, seemingly for support as they took a narrow, steep stairway down to another level of caves.

The simple touch stirred much longing within Thorin; he shivered with it, yet could not pull away too soon. Thranduil made no sign of minding, or even acknowledging the touch; his pace did not change and he kept at Thorin’s side steadily, glancing at the structures of the stairwells above them studiously. Thorin’s hand trembled and sweated, and relished the simple concession Thranduil had obviously made for him, and as they reached the bottom of the stairs, he let go, heart once again madly beating against his ribs.

From then on, Thorin understood he was allowed an occasional brush of a touch, and he made use of this new knowledge, though with every unobtrusive caress, he dreaded the elven King would simply sneer and mock Thorin’s clumsy advances.

Thranduil did nothing of the sort, and he dallied with Thorin for most of the day, seemingly exploring the depths of Erebor – though more than once, Thorin was left wondering if the kingdom under the hill was indeed what took Thranduil’s interest so completely, or if it was teasing the prince that amused the elven king.

At dinner, Thorin was at the end of his wits. He could not keep his eyes off the magnificent elf, and Thranduil’s occasional glances showed that he was aware of the attention. Great was Thorin’s surprise when, after the meal, Thranduil leaned close to him and with an innocent expression, offered a wicked deal:

“Since you have been so kind to show me the beauties of your kingdom, prince Thorin, I should like to offer something in return and show you what little of my own land I have with me… will you join me in my chambers afterwards?”

Thorin could feel his hot blood rush in his ears, deafening him to everything around. He stared at the elf, hopelessly holding on to the last straws of his self-control. When he managed to shake off the lust-haze that had taken him, he could hear Thranduil discussing the merits of elven wine over that of the dwarven kingdom. The elven king shot him an amused glance, and Thorin cursed his youth for the impatience it brought.

He could hardly wait for the feast to be over: his feet fidgeted under the table restlessly and he counted moments until his grandfather would rise from the table, signaling the end of the official dinner. When the time finally came, Thorin almost jumped to his feet: but Thranduil remained seated, talking quietly to Thorin’s father about one matter or another, and more than another hour passed before Thranduil rose as well. Only then did he glance at Thorin, as if to ask whether the dwarven prince was coming.

Thorin had to employ all his willpower to not trip over his own feet on the way to Thranduil’s rooms: his knees shook with the pure anticipation of what was to come, and his eyes slid down the elf’s straight back to his narrow hips, accentuated by the thick silvery tunic he wore. Oh, how he wished he could assault the elven king right there, on one of the many stairwells of Erebor…

Finally, they reached their destination and Thranduil entered, leaving the door opened for Thorin in a silent invitation. They slammed shut in the next moment as Thorin’s resolve snapped, and he crowded Thranduil against the nearest pillar, breath coming in short puffs as his hands found the elf’s hips, gripping as if Thorin was afraid this beautiful apparition would dissolve before his eyes if he did not hold on. His fingers slipped under the slithery fabric of Thranduil’s tunic and Thorin’s breath caught in his throat as he touched the warm skin of the elf’s stomach.

He was not allowed to move much further: Thranduil’s hands came to rest on Thorin’s wrists, and when the dwarf looked up, Thranduil’s expression was amused and benevolent, as if he were talking to a mildly disobedient child.

“Is this how you behave when a guest invites you for a friendly cup of wine, Prince Thorin? Or is it maybe customary among dwarves to assault without asking?”

Deep shame ran through Thorin and brought color to his cheeks: he stepped back and swallowed dryly, humiliation burning in his gut: but Thranduil did not ask him to leave. He merely stepped to the small stone table in the middle of the room and Thorin could hear clinking of delicate glasses that could not have been made in Erebor.

“Please, sit,” Thranduil motioned towards the fireplace, and Thorin moved as if controlled by magic, slowly letting his body collapse on one of the wooden chairs. He stared into the fire, letting his limbs be warmed by its heat and searching for the answer to the riddle that was Thranduil.

The elven king returned before Thorin could think of any possible way to react, and sat down as well, though not on the other chair; he lowered his lean body onto the furs covering the stone floor, and when Thorin dared to look, Thranduil motioned for the dwarf to join him, a wicked smile playing around the corners of his eyes. Thorin slid off his chair obediently, unable to resist the force that was Thranduil: at the back of his mind, he thought of disobeying – after all, he was not the elf-king’s to command; but the temptation was too sweet not to succumb.

He was rewarded when Thranduil shifted closer and offered a crystal goblet filled halfway with wine that had the color of blood and smelled of flowers and herbs and spices which Thorin would not dare to name. Thorin curled his hand around the goblet, trapping Thranduil’s fingers against the masterfully crafted crystal: the elf king made no move to get away. He merely smiled at Thorin, dark and enthralling like the wine’s sweet scent, and Thorin’s throat was helplessly dry just at that simple sight.

 He made a jerky movement to get the goblet to his lips, but Thranduil’s hand prevented him from throwing back the drink as he would on any other occasion.

“Slowly,” Thranduil admonished, his voice barely rising over the quiet crackle of fire, his eyes glinting mischievously in the dimmed light, “take but a sip. Let it roll over your tongue…”

Thorin swallowed against the dryness of his throat again, glancing down at the goblet. Could the scent of the wine be so heady, or was it Thranduil’s closeness that made his head spin with desire? As if the elven king could sense his predicament, he shifted closer, until his lips were close enough to whisper in Thorin’s ear, his words ruffling Thorin’s hair lightly. “Discover every flavor. Let it soak your tongue like a lover’s kiss… warm you inside out like a lover’s touch...”

The whispers sent tendrils of burning need through Thorin, and he could not control himself any longer. He lunged, releasing the goblet and not caring what happened to it: he buried his hand in the thick curtains of pale, glimmering hair and assaulted Thranduil’s silver-tongued mouth with fervor and desperation of the young and greedy. Thorin groaned against the feel of Thranduil’s soft lips under his, and he pushed his tongue forward, demanding entrance. Lust shook him like fever… but Thranduil allowed nothing of the sort. He drew back slightly, and Thorin’s stomach lurched with the fear of being sent away because of his boldness: but the elven king merely handed him the goblet again: he must have kept his hold on it when Thorin had let it go.

“Taste the wine, dwarven prince, and take your time… elven luxuries are not to be taken rashly,” he smirked, and Thorin shivered at the implications. With a trembling hand he reached for the goblet again: this time, Thranduil allowed him to pull the crystal edge to his lips and take a small sip of the heavy liquid. It burned and caressed in one little droplet, spices penetrating Thorin’s senses and awakening his tongue to tastes he had never known before. The wine was truly exquisite… but the dwarf could not forget the feel of Thranduil’s lips under his, and his eyes kept straying to the elf, unable to focus on any drink.

Thranduil insisted on Thorin finishing the wine: he kept whispering sweet, dirty encouragements in Thorin’s ear, words and breaths that travelled down Thorin’s body, spreading warmth more than the wine could, pooling in his loins as a deep ache of need. When the goblet was empty, Thorin tried to pull Thranduil into a kiss again: the elf pulled away once more, a smirk on his lips and a faint glimmer in his eyes that Thorin could not read.

Then, the elven king leaned closer, and Thorin’s breath caught in his throat once more. Soft, cool lips touched his, a mere brush of a kiss – when he groaned at the contact and pressed forward, Thranduil pulled back again. Thorin whimpered his protests, following the movement of the elf, but Thranduil’s hand came to rest on Thorin’s chest, slimmer and seemingly more fragile than a dwarf’s, but no less insistent and steady.

It took a few kisses that were barely there and a few desperate attempts for more on Thorin’s part for the dwarf to understand that Thranduil was teasing him, and if anything were to happen, it would be on the elf’s terms alone. Thorin went still, as still as he could when his every muscle was vibrating with the tension that made his eyes burn and his loins tighten with the sheer need to be touched. He swallowed and looked into those deep blue eyes that were so close, and yet too far: Thranduil smiled again and leaned in, and he captured Thorin’s bottom lip in a gentle kiss. For a long moment, it was just a touch, a sharing of breaths and closeness, and Thorin swallowed another whine that threatened to escape his throat. He needed more – but if he attempted to take it, even the slightest touch would be taken from him again. Thus, he remained motionless, his fingers thrumming with the urge to reciprocate the touch, his chest burning under Thranduil’s light hand. The elf relented after what seemed like eternity to Thorin: he opened his mouth slightly and sucked at Thorin’s lip, slowly grazing the tender skin with his teeth. Thorin groaned at the sensation, but made no move, even if it cost him every bit of self-control he gathered during the two decades of his life. He was rewarded by the hand on his chest that slid slowly up, brushing over his neck and briefly cupping his cheek before long fingers slid into his hair and cradled the back of his skull, pulling him closer. Thranduil’s slick tongue ran over his lip, dipping into Thorin’s mouth just briefly: even so, it left Thorin panting and pliant and wanting.

Thranduil’s lips slid lower, brushing Thorin’s chin, following the curve of his jawline through the still soft, short hair that would soon become a real dwarf beard. When Thranduil pressed a kiss right under Thorin’s ear, the dwarf gasped in a surprised breath and his hand gripped the elf’s shoulder, urging him to… Thorin did not even know what would be possible, what would be allowed, but he was sure of one thing: he needed more.

He could feel Thanduil’s smile against his skin more than hear the soft snort before the elf spoke quietly into his ear, causing more tremors from the dwarf’s body:

“Your kingdom is vast indeed, young prince… and exploring its beauties has left me in need of rest. I wish you good night, prince Thorin… sleep well.”

All of a sudden, in one smooth, fluttery motion, Thranduil was too far, at the opposite end of the room with his back to the dwarf, and Thorin stared into the fire for a moment before he understood the implications.

He could not say anything in return; he stomped to his own rooms aroused and frustrated and irritated, humiliated beyond anything he had ever experienced. He, the King’s grandson, the prince of this realm, sent away like a common concubine no longer needed for the night; he, the prince, shooed off, left dissatisfied without as much as a word of explanation, with only a lame excuse to serve as a ruse. Why had Thranduil led him on so, if he had no intention of making good on his wordless promises…? Why had Thorin believed those lying blue eyes, when he had known what had been said of insincere elves in the old books…?

Thorin could not get any sleep that night, tossing and turning on his bed, his stomach tight and his loins on fire. In the wee hours of the morning, he relented and angrily stroked himself to release, crude and unrefined and shameful, bringing but a momentary relief. He got up early and marched to the dining hall, resolved to not let Thranduil use him for his sick amusement any longer…

…but his anger was short-lived when the elf slid to a seat next to Thorin, reached for a bunch of grapes on the table and just looked at the young dwarf, his sky-blue eyes reflecting the desire which burned inside Thorin like a fire. A small part of Thorin wanted to laugh it off and let go: but a much larger part of him wished nothing more than to drag Thranduil to the nearest dark corner and force his tongue into the elf’s mouth and who knew where else.

At that moment, Thorin knew he was utterly lost to the charm of the elven King… and he could not find it in himself to care.

The next few days passed in much the same fashion: when Thranduil was not talking with the dwarven King, he spent his time with Thorin, who trailed after him like a thunderstruck fool, hanging on to the elf’s words and gestures in an attempt to divine what would happen next. And for several evenings, Thorin was left in much the same state as after that first visit in Thranduil’s chambers – half-sick with need, half-blind with lust and half-mad with frustration of unsatisfied want. He learned of Greenwood and its history, of Thranduil’s past (or of few faint glimpses into the vast millennia of Thranduil’s living), of the elf’s son, who was many centuries older than Thorin himself. Thranduil talked of old slights, of some ‘treasure’ that the elf saw as wrongfully delivered to dwarven hands – bitterness colored his words more often than not when talking of Thorin’s kin. The wine was strong and the touches sweet, yet Thranduil never allowed Thorin to get too close.

All of that would have possibly driven a sane man away… yet Thorin could not but wait for that moment when Thranduil’s restraints would break and let him in; he could not but dream of the elf even in the lonely nights when he tried to catch some sleep and failed, for his mind was filled with the scents and touches and looks and tastes, all connected to Thranduil through silvery, lively strands of memory.

At last, Thorin came uninvited to Thranduil’s chambers; the pale elf stood at the far end of the room, clad in nothing but a thin undershirt and leggings, partly obscured by the thick cloud of steam that rose from a large wooden bathtub set towards the corner of the chamber. Thranduil looked up, and Thorin stammered a hasty apology: he had not wished to disturb the elven King. Thranduil simply smiled: it seemed he would remain a mystery to Thorin forever, for he smiled when Thorin expected rebuff, and denied when Thorin assumed acceptance. This time, he beckoned to Thorin and the dwarf obeyed again, watching the steam rise and roll around the pale figure of the king.

“I didn’t intend to disturb your bath… I can return later,” Thorin tentatively repeated his apology, but Thranduil merely looked at him impassively, and a smirk quirked his lips before he spoke:

“Take off your clothes.”

An involuntary shiver shook through Thorin at the words: he could not believe he heard right, standing rooted to the spot, until Thranduil smiled again:

“Or would you rather take your bath fully dressed?”

Thorin looked at the bath: he was close enough to smell the herbs floating on the steaming surface, yet his hands could not seem to function properly. He made a weak motion to undo the fastenings of his outer cloak, but his eyes remained transfixed on the petals swirling over the water, as if he could find courage in them.

It took forever to undo all the knots and clasps and buttons that held his clothes to his body: Thranduil made no move, but maybe Thorin would have liked if the elf occupied himself otherwise instead of staring like that. He was all too aware of his short stature; for a dwarf, he was not among the shortest, but compared to Thranduil, he reached barely to the elf king’s chin, and removing every layer of clothing merely pointed harshly to the differences between them. Thorin was painfully aware of them all; he was too young even among his own people, still retaining the awkwardness of youth, and his hands caught nervously on his own belts as he struggled to remove them as gracefully as possible. The various metal pieces and ornaments of his clothing clattered loudly onto the stone floor when they slid off Thorin’s shoulders, and the dwarf winced at the sound: yet when he looked at Thranduil, there was no amusement or condescension on the elf’s face, merely curiosity as his blue eyes slid down Thranduil’s form slowly, the intensity of that stare jittering in Thorin’s stomach as well as stirring in his groin.

He was undressed at last, only a thin loincloth keeping his dignity somewhat intact as he crossed his hands over his crotch, to shield himself, and to steady the trembles in his hands that could have been from the cold draft in the rooms as well as from the excitement he was trying to hide.

Thranduil’s eyes caught on that last piece of cloth that hung over Thorin’s hips, and then he looked up to meet Thorin’s uneasy gaze.

“Take it off,” he commanded quietly, and suddenly Thorin was aware of the vast difference that a shirt and some pants could make. Thranduil was still dressed: the material was thin and simple and the elf barefoot, and yet it felt like somehow it made him less vulnerable, like Thorin was giving up more than just his clothes by obeying these words. He swallowed and his hands moved to the string that held his loincloth together; he glanced up, meeting Thranduil’s eyes.

“Will you make me leave again…?” he asked, his voice quiet and insufferably fragile: he hated himself for bringing such childish notions of fear and impatience and obvious, pathetic longing between them, but he could not do this forever… as much as he needed Thranduil’s touch, the soft brushes of lips and hands were not enough anymore. After the past few days, lust clouded his mind and his judgment and Thorin could think of nothing else, no one else. He knew he could not bear this predicament anymore – and if Thranduil intended to toy with him much longer, he wished to know in no uncertain terms.

Thranduil looked at him for a long while; Thorin’s hand trembled over the string of his loincloth, not sure whether he should move and dismiss his silly question altogether, or gather up his clothes and leave while he still could.

Just when Thorin was on the brink of letting the remains of his pride take control and steer him out of the door, Thranduil’s blank grimace was broken with a tiniest crack of a smile, and a shake of the silvery head:

“Not unless you wish to leave yourself, young prince.”

Thorin swallowed and pulled at the string wordlessly: his loincloth joined the rest of his clothes on the floor and he took a shaky step forward, not sure what was expected of him. Thranduil motioned towards the bath; Thorin frowned at the water, then glanced back at the elf:

“You want me… to take a bath with you…?”

“I wish to tend to you,” Thranduil corrected with an amused smirk, and Thorin’s eyes widened:

“Tend-… I wouldn’t… I can’t let you service me like a common servant!” he exclaimed, his words hoarse over the audacity of that simple request. Thranduil lost nothing of his amusement as he shrugged and stepped closer, motioning towards the bath once more.

“Yet you would have me service you in other ways, is it not so?” he remarked and Thorin flushed from head to toes, his arousal stirring against the cool air of the room. He could not deny that the thought had crossed his mind, especially on those lonely nights, and he knew Thranduil could read it in his eyes. With a nervous swallow and a thought that he was safer half-hidden by the hot water, he stepped into the bath and lowered himself into the welcoming warmth of it, his skin prickling under the heat, and under the studious gaze of the elf. As he leaned back against the wooden rim of the bath, Thorin heard Thranduil step closer: a thought crossed his mind that Thranduil did it on purpose, for he could move silently like no one Thorin ever knew. Cool hands came to rest on Thorin’s shoulders and he shivered at the touch, exhaling slowly; strong thumbs began to knead the knots out of his muscle and Thorin groaned his pleasure, leaning into the slim hands that held remarkable power.

Soon, he found himself melting into the herb-scented warmth; the hands slipped lower, fingers combing through the dark, curly hair covering Thorin’s chest. Then they disappeared altogether and Thorin opened his eyes: he could not tell when he had closed them. Before he could even look around, Thranduil’s hand brushed his neck, his cheek, announcing the presence of the elf without words. Thorin relaxed again and let Thranduil do as he pleased.

His hair was washed with meticulous care; the elf rinsed out all the dust and dirt that could have gathered in the dark curls, and Thorin could smell more herbs again: but he did not care what Thranduil was doing, as long as he did not stop touching him. Thranduil’s hands were divine in his hair, pushing against his scalp soothingly; they were even better when they slipped over Thorin’s wet skin to his chest and stomach, fingers pressing against every ridge of a muscle, every plane, every edge of a bone. Thorin had never experienced something so sensual; all of his brief (and scarce) encounters with someone else’s hands and body were full of secrecy and the heated rush of not wishing to be discovered. This was… far from secretive. Thorin felt exposed in the large chamber, but there were no prying eyes around, and Thranduil’s hands made him forget every reservation he might’ve had as they brushed over his hips.

At some point, Thranduil must have removed his shirt, for when he leaned close, Thorin could feel his bare chest press into Thorin’s shoulders from behind. He took a sharp breath at the contact and all he wanted was to twist around and look his fill: but then, Thranduil’s warmed palm cupped Thorin’s arousal and the dwarf gasped for breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he could neither see nor hear, reduced to a crumbling mass of sensations. His hips bucked into Thranduil’s touch; the elf chuckled against Thorin’s ear and then lips were brushing the sensitive shell, making Thorin cry out again and grip the edge of the bath tightly: he had a feeling Thranduil would not appreciate being rushed, and Thorin could not take it if the elf decided to send him away after all. Not when he was at the point of breaking already, closer to release than he had ever been with a simple touch like this.

“Please,” he whispered, humiliation of begging mixing with his burning need. “No more teasing…”

“Fine,” Thranduil breathed over his ear, and then his hands were gone, leaving Thorin feeling cold despite the warmth of the water all around him. He blinked into the shadows of the room, seeking out the bright figure that was Thranduil; the elf was walking away and Thorin was seized by a momentary flash of white-hot panic. He scrambled out of the bath, sloshing water all over the stone tiles: before he could move away from the bathtub, though, Thranduil turned and looked at him, his blue eyes rooting Thorin to the floor for a moment.

He was standing beside his bed, clad in nothing but his thin leggings, and his arousal tented the soft fabric in a way that could not be hidden even in the dim lights of the chamber.

Thorin could never understand how a simple look could say so much: Thranduil was asking, wondering, and yet commanding relentlessly, daring and teasing and taunting. Promising.

Thorin released a breath he did not know he’d been holding, and for a short moment, he felt dizzy. Then he took a step, then another, and then he was all but running to meet Thranduil, for his body longed to be close to Thranduil’s, his mouth urged to meet the elf’s lips.

Thranduil sat down on the edge of the bed before Thorin reached him: when he finally did, his thick fingers tangled in Thranduil’s hair with desperate urgency, pulling the elf into a searing kiss. This time, Thranduil did not immediately pull away: Thorin could feel a small smirk in the corner of the elf’s mouth as they kissed, but it quickly gave way to the push and pull of tongues, tasting and exploring and battling.

Thranduil pushed his knee between Thorin’s legs; the dwarf let him without any doubts, still lost in the heady feeling of Thranduil’s tongue against his      . When Thranduil’s hands rested at the back of his bare thighs, pulling him closer, he let himself be drawn into Thranduil’s lap, straddling his hips with his knees burying into the mattress. Thorin released a shaky sigh; Thranduil’s fingers travelled up, cupping the firm globes of his backside. It pulled the dwarf flat over the other, Thorin’s leaking arousal trapped against Thranduil’s stomach. Thorin breathed out his gasp into Thranduil’s neck; for a brief moment, he worried if the scrape of his beard would not be unpleasant to the elf, but he had no time to ponder the issue further as Thranduil tightened his grip on Thorin’s ass and flipped them over, leaving the dwarven prince gasp for breath as he hit the mattress unexpectedly. He barely found his bearings when the silvery creature crawled all over him, brushing his lips against the curve of his collarbone, scraping his teeth against his nipple, trailing his tongue down his stomach. Thranduil obviously had no qualms about the excess of hair on Thorin’s body; if anything, his eyes sparkled with mischief as he combed his fingers through the dark curls, pulling here and there, smoothing down elsewhere.

Thranduil also did not seem to mind that Thorin had been turned into a shivering mess incapable of coherent thought, much less movement. The elven king licked and teased and sucked and bit, scratched and caressed and pushed and pulled, and Thorin gasped his pleasure into the cool night air, squeezed his eyes shut from the overflow of pleasure, then snapped them open again at the thought that he should miss any tiny moment of this exquisite torture. And it was a sight to behold, watching the proud elven king open his mouth and take Thranduil’s arousal whole to the hilt, making the most delightfully obscene sounds Thorin had ever heard. He chuckled, not amusement, just another way of gasping for air at the sensations, and threw his head back – it was over all too quickly as Thranduil pulled away and the dwarf had to whine in disapproval: he had been so close, and Thranduil was teasing him again, retreating completely from the bed when all Thorin needed was just a moment and a few more strokes-

“Do not touch yourself,” a command cut through the air and Thorin glanced up, hand hovering in the air but a breath away from his aching member, his whole body trembling with the force in that tone. He was not used to yielding to another’s command, except his father and his grandfather’s, and this was something completely different; Thorin had never let anyone lead him like this, take whatever they wanted from him, command him and treat him like a lowly mistress. Only Thranduil had the pride, the power to do so. When Thorin saw him stand by the bed, eyes bright and fierce as they focused on Thorin, never looking away as the elven king slowly unlaced his leggings and pushed them down his hips… Thorin knew he was truly and utterly lost to the mystic powers of this elf, that he would never be the same after this night.

And he could not care less: Thranduil slithered back with feline grace and leaned over Thorin to capture his mouth again. Thorin whimpered: he was close already, and every slide of Thranduil’s tongue was just pushing him closer and closer to the brink. Then, the elven king drew back again – only then did Thorin notice a small vial on the mattress, half-full of some purplish, thick liquid.

Thranduil’s hand was slick as his fingers curled over Thorin’s member: he gasped in surprise and his hips bucked up into that delicious touch. All too soon, Thranduil withdrew again: Thorin opened his mouth to voice his complaints, and the words got stuck in his throat when he saw the beautiful, otherworldly man straddle his hips, his knees brushing Thorin’s sides and his smirk as condescending and victorious as it had been the first time Thorin had seen him in his grandfather’s throne room. Thorin’s eyes widened as he realized the elf’s intentions and he took a deep breath: that was all he had time for before Thranduil’s hand took hold of Thorin’s member as the elf positioned himself, then eased himself onto Thorin’s arousal.

He had never felt anything even remotely close: he gasped in shock as the fiery bolts of pleasure ran down his spine and quickly became almost unbearable, bringing tears to his eyes. His fingers clawed against the long, pale thighs of the elf and his hips rocked up into the inviting slickness; Thorin thought that the searing heat of Thranduil’s body would burn him, yet he wanted nothing more. Thranduil went still, one hand a steady pressure over Thorin’s stomach to keep the dwarf from moving: then, he leaned down and pushed his tongue past Thorin’s lips. Thorin invited the distraction, his mind a cloud of blissful ache and his body tense as it had never been before; the elven king took his time, exploring every last bit of Thorin’s mouth, soaking his taste into the dwarf’s tongue much like the intoxicating, heavy elven wine. Then, he rocked back against Thorin’s hips, and the dwarf was lost: his release came as a bolt of lightning, burning him and blazing bright as he screamed and laughed into Thranduil’s mouth, clutching his thigh and his side as if the elf could melt into him and never let go. Thranduil kept rocking through Thorin’s release, stilling only when Thorin’s member softened inside of him: but he did not move away as Thorin had expected through the slowly dissipating cloud of pleasure that had taken his mind.

He looked up, finally capable of opening his eyes: Thranduil was beautiful like this, sweaty and breathing heavily, his long hair tangled and messy as it hung over his shoulders, reflecting the firelight from behind him. His eyes were a burning, bright blue as he stared down at Thorin, a cocky smirk tucked into the corner of his mouth despite his apparent, straining need, bobbing impatiently against Thorin’s stomach. The dwarf’s hand shook as he let go of the elf’s thigh, moving to his member: Thranduil slapped his hand away, bending over for another messy kiss.

Thorin would not have thought it was possible to get hard again so soon after finding his release: even his youthful stamina has its limits. But he did; Thranduil’s scent, the taste of his sweat, the feel of his hands on Thorin’s body, it was too much to endure, and soon he was rocking up into the tight heat of Thranduil’s body, sharing breaths and groans and sighs with the elf as they both edged closer and closer. Having Thranduil tremble in his arms as he moaned quietly into Thorin’s hair was a moment Thorin was sure he would never forget: an all-encompassing tenderness for the elf seized his heart at that moment as he was allowed a tiny glimpse of the Thranduil under his cloak of pride, the Thranduil who was no king, who needed someone in the matters of flesh, and maybe heart.

The Greenwood lot departed early the next morning: Thorin woke in the guest chambers alone, on a bed still drenched in their mingled sweat, with the bathtub still in the corner and tiny flames flickering weakly in the fireplace.

He never learned what that one night meant for Thranduil; he hoped for a few more months, kindling the sparks of all the things he had felt under Thranduil’s touch, until he saw the elf again.

Thranduil was standing on the hill not too far from the gates of Erebor, that condescending smirk on his lips again, visible even from such distance. For a brief moment, the sparks in Thranduil’s heart flickered to life; then, Thranduil raised his hand and with a simple wave, left Thorin standing alone in the middle of chaos and destruction, watching his whole world collapse around him and bury everything he had known and loved under the mountain of Erebor. The tiny sparks of everything good turned sour; hatred flared to the sky, betrayal churned sour in Thorin’s stomach. He watched him leave on his majestic animal, with his army which could have made a difference for Thorin’s people – the people whose screams echoed in his ears and cut like shards of glass into Thorin’s heart, leaving it hurt and weak and barren.

That was the day Thorin, not yet Oakenshield, learned to never take command from another again – that was the day he learned the consuming, searing intensity of hatred.

Occasionally, throughout the lonely years wandering the wilds and serving like a common blacksmith to ungrateful Men, he would suffer from nightmares of tender touches and passion in blue eyes, and he would wake drenched in sweat that would make his eyes sting and burn and his heart constrict over something long ago burned out of its memory.

And he never forgave.

And he never forgot.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [from the ashes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/626930) by [Liu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu)




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